Poetry By
Thomas Lesh
Published on: 2/12/2008
Leaves
I have seen them borne on the hard wind Empty hands pressed upon the window Grasping hands that scuttle along the pavement Only to take flight once more That in their patterns We should know the force that drives them Swirling before it. In the end it is the passing that matters, The dervish beauty uncomplicated by design. Death and rebirth Rendered in this random embrace Are inconsequential to the dance That leaves behind bare branches Bearing green memories without regret.
Published on: 2/12/2008
Scarabs
On a warm November day I have opened the house, All the doors and windows, To let the lady bugs inside. In the morning they are scattered in splendor About the floor and the ledges and the courtyard, All the jewels of the orient, Such bounty cannot another hour buy.
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